The Sahara of My Soul

I. The gales of Hell, they gust my soul; I shutter up in vain-- Cracked windows of my storm-rent brain, Shuddering as wind-tides roll. Rattling rhythms wrack my soul. The wind-voice screeches out my name With banshee-clarity and tone Skirling, high-pitched, like a lone Lover who slew herself in shame— Wind-wraith woman howls my name! II. The winds wax silent, shorn of sound, A pall afflicts the land, Breezeless, arid, bone-strewn sand There my cerements are found Rotting on the charnel ground.